


If I Lose Myself Tonight

by NightingaleSong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightingaleSong/pseuds/NightingaleSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John awoke slowly and basked in the luxuriant warmth of the down-soft duvet and plump pillows. He opened his eyes, and with the cool light of dawn realised everything had changed.  The only question now was what was he going to do about it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Lose Myself Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Completely inspired by One Republic's If I Lose Myself lyrics
> 
> If I Lose Myself Tonight  
> It'll be by your side
> 
> I'm still writing These Things We Do but this hit me and had to be written. Originally intended as a one-shot, I thought I'd post the first part in the spirit of the season of giving! Comments cheerfully received. Happy New Year! x

_John awoke slowly and basked in the luxuriant warmth of the down-soft duvet and plump pillows. He opened his eyes, and with the cool light of dawn realised everything had changed.  The only question now was what was he going to do about it?_

_~~~_

"Christ, Sherlock. I'm getting married! You can't expect me to follow in your hallowed wake any more.  Two years, Sherlock.  Two years I believed you were bloody dead. You _let_ me believe you were dead and now ... now you come waltzing back and expect me to be, what, grateful? Did I mean so little to you that you thought I had nothing without you? What did you want? Me sitting, pining in that chair until the day you stage your fucking miracle resurrection? Screw it, Sherlock. I moved on. Made a life. Found someone who truly loves me."

 

"I know." Sherlock replied quietly, still as a statue except for the finger and thumb of his left hand repetitively worrying at the cuff edge of his right shirt sleeve. "Mary. We talked. She's ...nice."

 

John blinked at his former friend. Barely contained anger boiling again, "you spoke .... To Mary? Fucking hell, Sherlock! You do not 'speak' or communicate with her again. Understand?"

 

"You wouldn't talk to me so I had no other choice."  Sherlock slumped down into his chair, but sat upright and tense, his hands clasped on his thighs. "She wants you to work with me again. Thinks it would do you good. Says you're often bored at the surgery, which, obviously you would be. Come on, John! You miss it, don't you? The thrill, the excitement! I do something amazing and you blog about it. It's how it works. " Sherlock's face took on a forced, crooked smile; he was obviously nervous, thrown by John's unexpected vitriol. "And," he continued, apprehension edging into his voice, "you're here."

 

"Yes, because you have been texting me about forty times a day."  The fire from John's rage had gone, dissipated with Sherlock's quoting of Mary.  John had heard it before, heard his fiancée plead with him to speak to Sherlock.  Ever since his return a fortnight previously she had watched John anxiously.  She above all others knew just how John had mourned his friend; how it was all made so much worse by his PTSD, how he struggled with nightmares, flashbacks, guilt, loss. Mary had helped John package his feelings, all of them, even those he kept hidden, even from her - the ones apparently destined to remain forever unspoken, and put them in a special box in his memory; accessible when he was ready but no longer swamping, engulfing and choking. She had soothed him, rebuilt him into the strong, caring man he always had been and John knew that the final part of this whole messy puzzle was forgiveness. Forgiveness of what Sherlock had done, understanding of not how, but why.  That was what Mary wanted for him, completion, so they could move on in peace and not live wracked by pain and resentment.  John sighed, rubbed his hand through his short blond hair and sat in the chair opposite Sherlock. His chair.

 

Sherlock smiled wanly, tension ebbing visibly from his body. His legs stretched out in front of him and he crossed his ankles, his hands coming up to steeple under his chin in a move that tightened John's chest just for a second. "There's a case, John. I need you."  He stared at John, his quicksilver eyes bright and expectant.  Never able to resist those words from a man who very rarely appeared to need anyone, John felt a small tug from the old, familiar thrill of the bond between them. "Two bodies and a disappearance, probably drug related, maybe mob, not too sure just yet. Definitely dangerous," Sherlock grinned and winked, "will you come?"

 

John sat impassively for moment, his expression unreadable. "Yes," he replied eventually, the Sherlock box quivered and jumped in the back of his mind, "god, yes."

 


End file.
